435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Quayle read it and signed it. “So how are your Crimes looking,”

  Quayle sighed. “Well three are looking borderline NFA. Most are still outstanding statements; CCTV needs to be collected. And four are waiting for dates for voluntaries.” Bozza looked non-plussed.

  “Well do what you can,” he said, taking the report with him.

  In Quayle's ear the radio net was alive and buzzing as a Saturday across the North unfolded. Officers just don't hear calls they make or receive; they hear everything on the particular channel. So basically, the ins and s outs of every incident. It was a major distraction when you were trying to do 'office work'. But necessary.

  Quayle started churning his crimes. Updating witnesses with emails or putting notes to all of them on the system to remind him to call. Lost in the flow he missed Sergeant Jones coming over to Bozza. Quayle was engrossed in filling in a voluminous T1 form, something which needed doing after Road Traffic Collisions. This might sound dramatic but in this instance, it was a prang between a myopic pensioner and a school run mum in a Chelsea Tractor, nevertheless it still involved tediously handwriting in all the details and s drawing diagrams.

  “Come on Tonto we've got some Novichok to pick up. Car in two minutes,” said Bozza. Quayle put his pen down and logged back onto the computer and printed off the incident log. Putting his laptop in its case he made for the car park. Luckily as it was relatively 'Q’, they'd been able to 'kit up' the car and his 'go bag' was already there. Getting into the passenger seat he read the log.

  Essentially a garden centre who also had an online business selling bulbs and seeds had received a suspicious package containing white powder from Russia. “How did we get this crap?” asked Quayle. “Cos I'm NBC trained from my Army days,” said Bozza with an ironic laugh. They rolled out of the station. Quayle reached into his stab vest and flicked open his pocket notebook and updated it with the incident number and the brief details from EAGLE log.

  He glanced back to the previous night’s incident. “What happened to Palfreyman?” Quayle asked. Though it had been Quayle's arrest, Bozza had taken over once the drunk driver's detention had been authorised by the custody sergeant. This was because Quayle was not Intoximeter trained. The cumbersome piece of machinery that was located in its own little room, looking like something from Doctor Who, was basically a more sophisticated version of the roadside breathalyser. It was used to get an 'official' sample.

  “Well, he was still over the limit on the intox. I did the handover and I got an email saying SOCU were interviewing him this morning?” SOCU was the Serious and Organised Crime Unit on a force level. That was the acronym for their current guise, but they were universally known as the 'Sneaky Beakies'

  When Quayle had been training at the resplendent country pile which was headquarters for Fosse Police, he and his cohort had received a lecture from one of their number on OCGs or Organised Crime Groups. The Sneaky Beakies had their offices in their own building which was covered in CCTV cameras and mirrored windows. They had their own garages and parking - a motley assortment of constantly changing cars used for covert operations were parked there. On occasion on his rambles around the grounds at lunchtime Quayle had seen a few insalubrious characters walking around. Soon enough he realised these were the Beakies.

  “Why were SOCU involved with a drink driver?” Bozza laughed. “My, someone has got their investigative mindset plugged in. While you were doing the breath test, I had a scoobie in his car. It looked like he was living in it. There was a Bergen full of stuff and a sleeping bag. And I ran the cars VIN. The plates belonged to a similar car but in Glasgow. As you know he gave a Liverpool address.

  “So it got my Spidey sense tingling and I pinged the Beakies an email. This is between me, you and these guys, but they were all over it like flies around shit. I got a call at 4am this morning to give them a brief. And that was that. Last time I looked he was RUI.” Quayle nodded. RUI was Released Under Investigation, the new alternative to bail.

  After a posse of celebrities had been left lingering on bail for months and even years, reforms had seen police bail which allowed conditions to be imposed on suspects such as surrendering their passports or attending a police station at a certain date and time. He was going to ask why Palfreyman had been released if he was under such suspicion but thought better of it. As he was fast learning, the role of the 'bog standard response officer' was much akin to being a refuse collector. You turned up to a mess and sorted it out as best you could. But there was more rubbish than you could sweep up. It was a Sisyphean task.

  He thought back to his interview with a panel of cops on a freezing February at headquarters. Truthfully, he'd said he wanted to make a difference. On receiving his 'powers' and warrant card during his class as attestation he'd felt proud. Doing his first arrests and closing the cell door on someone's liberty had felt immense. But in the cold light of day these offenders being let off for lack of evidence, being slapped with fines they'd never pay or receiving paltry sentences of a few weeks or months, had soon taken the sheen off it. Bozza seemed recalcitrant on saying anymore. Quayle let it lie. For now.

  They pulled off the motorway and after a few twists and turns hit a street of suburban bungalows with well-appointed gardens. In some attempt to stamp their own mark on their detached but identical properties, the owners had exotic names for their homes. Here a 'Valhalla' there a 'Xanadu'. The two cops were looking for 'Greenacres'.

  Bozza spotted the bungalow and parked the car. “Los like a dog place,” he said. Since starting on shift the pair had played this game. Bozza had an uncanny ability to discern the interior and 'type' of people who lived in a certain property. On Quayle's first day he had been told 'People who live in 'courts end up in court'. This had proved more than prescient. “Well it's definitely a dog place so I’ll call the type of dog,” said Quayle. “Okay, you get two guesses and whoever comes out on top gets the coffees at Maggie's,” Bozza replied. (Maggie's was a 24-hour trucker's caravan tucked between two industrial units.) Cops and Ambos could get half price drinks there. It was pretty much the only place on their patrol area they could now safely go. Not that they were in danger of being assaulted. It was the overzealous keyboard warriors with their smartphones that caused the issue.

  Four members of the shift had called into a Costa for a brew, spending no more than ten minutes there. Nonetheless the inevitable picture had appeared on Twitter and Facebook with the caption talking about doughnut munching cops lazing about. Thankfully the 'Boss', shift Inspector Noel Harris, instead of carpeting the cops, had tasked them to hunt down the poster. They'd found him and the Inspector had paid him a visit mentioning that posting pictures of officers was some transgression of the Defence of the Realm Act, which was a load of flannel but left the keyboard warrior suitably chastised.

  “Deal, okay I’ll go little and large combo; Labradoodle and Miniature Schnauzer,” said Quayle as they walked up the drive.

  The front door opened and a slight woman in her fifties appeared in a pool of light. The sound of barking issued from the interior.

  “Evening Officers, have you got your gear for the chemical stuff?”

  Quayle looked to Bozza bemusedly. “Yes, right here Madam,' said Bozza extracting the bag of blue plastic gloves he habitually carried in his stab vest pocket.

  Quayle had quickly realised that you could never carry enough of them. From picking up evidence to frisking feral smelling suspects they were really the most valuable of tools.

  They followed the woman up a hall covered in fake wood. Paws skittered on the surface and a Labradoodle and Miniature Schnauzer bounded in, the smaller dog barking its head off. She shepherded them into a side room and shut the door.

  “The stuff's through here,” she said. They stepped into a modern long kitchen. At one end was a large table with a computer on it and all the bits and pieces involved in running an online business, various packaging and Sellotape. “There it is,” she said in a low voice, as if the
bag of white powder was a sentient being that might awaken.

  It was a clear bag of white powder about the size of a bag of sugar. Next to it was a torn jiffy bag which the package had been posted in.

  “Can you tell me anything about it?” asked Bozza donning two pairs of blue gloves. Quayle had his pocket notebook out and pen poised.

  “It came in this morning's Royal Mail post, no note inside or anything. It's from an address I despatched some items to a few weeks ago. I sell vegan cosmetics.”

  Bozza snapped a few shots of the bag with his job phone and did the same with the packaging and the mailing label. He then moved the bag around with a finger and pd it. “Well the good news is it's not Novichok and it’s stable. No immediate risk. We’ll bag it and send it to the lab for analysis.

  Half an hour later they were parked at Maggie's as inconspicuously as you could be in a marked police vehicle. The white powder had been bagged and tagged and dropped off at the local Fire Station. The duty Inspector had checked and managed to shove the investigation over to the Fire Service. “Hand it over to Trumpton,” he'd said.

  After leaving the bungalow and reassuring the lady that her children wouldn't be growing extra heads any time soon, they had gone for 'refs' or refreshments. Once again like all police jargon this practice sounded more genteel than the truth which it belied. Officially they were allowed half an hour's break. In reality it meant wolfing down whatever food you brought with you or got chance to buy. Quayle and Bozza were still officially on the 'NOTvichok ' job. Bozza had bought the coffees, much to his chagrin. “I'll never guess how you knew. Must be beginner's luck,” he muttered as he started up the car.

  Chapter 3

  For once the 'Fun Bus' was out on time. The Boss had decided to tag along in the front seat. Quayle as the Student Officer was in the jump seat behind the sliding door. He had the job of being the one sent out to deal with any incidents. The Town Link radio which linked the town’s pubs and nightclubs had said there was an estimated two and half thousand punters out. Tonight the thin blue line consisted of the aforementioned Boss, Quayle, Bozza and five other PCs including a special who seemed to do as many hours as the paid regulars

  The van pulled up alongside 'The Roxy'.

  “Okay florries and cameras on, lets show the flag”, said the Boss. They donned their high vis jackets and slotted their bodycams on. Fanning out they stood by the van keeping an eye on the passing crowds who were in various states of intoxication. Quayle stood a couple of yards from Bozza, who kept up a running commentary.

  “Jesus, get back in the loch Nessie, you’re a monster,” he said nodding towards an obese woman staggering along the street and wearing a dress made for someone a lot smaller.

  “Right young man, go and take a walk along by the taxi rank,” said Bozza.

  Quayle ambled up to the taxi rank where a dozen or more cabs were waiting. He exchanged a few nods with the taxi drivers who were on the whole pleased to see officers on duty. This was the kind of thing Quayle had dreamed policing would be like. Not running from job to job, notching up another bit of paperwork and then having no time to effectively investigate it.

  Then it all kicked off. There was shouting and the sound of breaking glass. Quayle was running back to the front of the Roxy as the radio net burst into life confirming what he's already heard. Two groups of men were scrapping it out in the street. Dotted between them were the fluorescent jackets of his colleagues. Quayle saw the tall figure of Bozza who was latched onto a flailing man trying his best to escape.

  “Get him on the fucking floor'” shouted Bozza. Quayle grabbed the man's free arm and got him in a wrist lock whist bringing a boot under the man's foot and pushing him to the floor. This failed so Quayle twisted the wrist further upholding the pain threshold and put a knee strike in with his boot. He and the man went to the floor in a tangle of arms and limbs. Bozza had gotten his cuffs out. Between them they put the still struggling man into a ground pin. Bozza was snapping the cuffs on when a second man intervened and pushed him over. Quayle turned and just got his arms up to deflect a punch. Getting inside the man's swinging arc he shouldered him back.

  By this time, a third man was trying to get Bozza in a headlock. “I'm going to snot hem out of the way,” shouted Quayle. Snapping the closer off his holder he drew his PAVA spray and directed a jet across at the two men. The effect was instantaneous. Up came their hands to their faces as the pepper spray worked its magic. Bozza was up on his feet, slammed one guy to the ground and then pulled him up into a wrist lock. Quayle went over to the third guy who on his knees shouting about not being able to see and rear cuffed him. The welcome sight of the cavalry came in the form of a marked car containing a single Special constable. “Well you took your bloody time,” said Bozza with a smile. Without needing prompting the Special got out his cuffs and rear cuffed the second man Bozza had been holding.

  Bozza searched in the gloom of the street for his helmet which had come off in the melee. The fluorescent clad figure of the boss stalked up to the group. “All okay here chaps?” he asked.

  “Well I was doing okay, Boss, then the Milky Bar kid turned up and snotted them.” said Bozza with a wink.

  “So what's your thinking here, Quayle?” the Boss asked.

  “I'm thinking affray for all three of them with a possible ‘Assault Police' for Number Two here. He tried to fill me in.”

  The boss nodded in agreement. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Quayle you take the Lobster in the car to custody with our Special Friend and me and Bozza will take these two back to get ambo to check them out. Then we'll stick them in the van”

  Quayle rolled the prone and cuffed prisoner to his feet and marched him to the car cautioning him as he went, The Special opened the car door. “Fucking pigs” a voice spat with hate.

  A middle-aged man staggered down the street. The Boss strode up to him “Cut the swearing out sir or you'll be joining these chaps in the cells,” The man gave a beery belch “Who do you think you are you bald cunt. Bullied at school were you.?” The Boss ignored the taunt and pushed the drunk man hard in the chest. “For the last time, get on your way,” The man staggered back a few steps and then came back in winding up a haymaker punch. The Boss got inside it and gave the guy another almighty shove. He was on the short side but powerfully built, the guy shot back, spun round and smashed into a set of roller shutter doors, yelped as his nose smashed and fell into a limp shape on a pile of stinking bin bags. “I'll get him an ambo,” said the Boss.

  For once Custody was blessedly close. Quayle waved thanks to the Special as he drove off and pressed the buzzer for the airlock to open.

  “One in Custody for affray,” said Quayle into the intercom. There was some unintelligible reply and the large shutter door rolled open. Quayle pushed the prisoner forward. He waited then for the door to slam shut. It clanged and the young street fighter of ten minutes ago lod fearful. The interior door buzzed open. They went through and the second door slammed behind them. Then the door to the Custody Suite opened.

  Quayle to one lo at the rampart like desk where the two Custody sergeants were safely ensconced, Both were occupied, A knot of officers were standing by their prisoners who looked like they were being compliant, Unlike TV, where suspects are locked up in a cell in seconds by a sarcastic old sweaty sergeant with a big bunch of keys, the process is involved. If the general public are wondering why there are no cops on the streets, it's because they're tied up in Custody. The same booking in process applies for shoplifters as for murderers. And until the Custody sergeant has heard the particulars of arrest and authorised the detention of the suspects it is still the responsibility of the arresting officer.

  Quayle’s record in Custody was four hours, but this was nowhere near he longest record by far While the official stuff and the buck stops with the Custody sergeant, the majority of the monitoring, moving, feeding and general care is actually done by civilians called Custody Detention Officers. Quayle had quickly bui
lt up an admiration for these people. Sergeant Dobson the one he had nicknamed 'Sylvester’ for his likeness to the spluttering cartoon feline, nodded to Quayle

  “Take a seat, we'll be done in a minute,” he said .

  Anticipating the wait, Quayle decided to move the suspect’s cuffs from the rear to the front stack position allowing him a bit more comfort but making sure he'd be on the deck before he could fart if he got stroppy.. On the radio net, things were calming down. But only the other fun bus and three additional units had been pulled in. The inner door buzzed and swung in. A middle-aged man in a suit and stinking of booze was propelled into the corridor. Cuffed to the front, he staggered and was only prevented from hitting the deck by Quayle who grabbed his shoulders and sat him on the concrete bench.

  “Good catch Probie,” said a tall well-built man.

  “Thanks, Sir. “he said recognising Detective Chief Inspector, George Carding.” Quayle had met Carding a few times during training. The DCI was part of the Sneaky Beakies. They had also met a few times in the car park outside headquarters, both being early birds, as they lived the farthest away. “You can drop the 'Sir’, constable, it's Saturday night and I'm officially off duty. Well I was till chappie here decided to slap his wife in the bar of the Prince of Wales.”